The living room felt like a sealed dimension, dim, elegant, and drenched in deep graphite and shadowed black tones. The lighting softened every edge but still allowed the polished marble and dark wooden accents to gleam faintly. 

Heavy velvet curtains kept the outside world muted, leaving only the warm hush of sandalwood, rare incense, and the quiet richness that belonged to homes built on old money.

Meirei sat in the center of the U-shaped sofa.  One leg was crossed neatly over the other, his oversized beige hoodie draping lazily around his lean frame while tight black leggings traced the lines of his legs. 

The warm, closed-toe slippers on his feet were placed just right, not a centimeter out of order. A few loose strands of black hair brushed his cheek whenever the gentle air conditioner breeze flowed past. 

His heterochromatic eyes, one crimson and one icy blue, stayed fixed on the porcelain teacup in his hands. 

There was no emotion on his face, no visible tension, not even the mild curiosity most people would have shown. Meirei simply existed in perfect calm, sipping his tea like a quiet storm no one had learned to predict.

Cyrin moved in complete contrast. His reddish-brown hair was tousled, damp with sweat that glued certain strands to his forehead. Dark circles sat beneath his eyes, speaking of nights too long and patience too thin. 

The cigarette between his lips sent thin curls of smoke into the air, forming pale ribbons that disappeared into the dim lighting. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tense forearms that flexed every time he ran a hand through his hair. 

The steady tap of his boots against the floor marked an uneven rhythm as he paced back and forth, stopping only to turn and resume again.

Meirei glanced at him just long enough to sip his tea, then  he spoke with a calm, almost bored tone. “You ever sit still, Cyrin?”

“Only when I’m dead,” Cyrin muttered through the cigarette, moving like a caged wolf. “Which might actually happen because of you, Meirei. And look at you, drinking your stupid tea like nothing matters.”

Meirei tilted his cup slightly to observe the golden surface of the tea. “And yet here we are. You’re pacing. I’m hydrating.” His face did not move, not even a micro-expression.

Cyrin snapped, irritation flaring. “Shut it, Meirei. I’m not in the mood. I need to talk to that bastard, right now.”

“Cyrin,” Meirei replied in the exact same tone as before, “calm down. It’s nothing serious. Don’t act like this is new.”

The words did not calm Cyrin at all. He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray with too much force, and it gave a sharp hiss before dying. Meirei sighed softly, not for Cyrin’s frustration, but because his tea had cooled more than he preferred.

 He set the cup down, hugged his arms around himself for a moment, and rubbed his forearms with a displeased expression.

“And who said anything about being in the mood?” he complained, glaring at the air. “Don’t talk like that. It’s creepy.”
He hated tense atmospheres, hated emotional heat, hated anything that felt even slightly suffocating.

After comforting himself, he picked up the teacup again, sniffed it approvingly, and took another sip.

Cyrin opened his mouth to snap back, but a sound interrupted both of them.

The front door creaked open, not loudly, not forcefully, but with a smooth, deliberate slowness. The soft noise drifted through the long marble entryway and rolled across the room, immediately drawing both men’s attention. 

They looked toward the doorway at the same time. A quiet tension settled over the space, tightening the air. The shadows seemed to stretch, and even the incense felt momentarily still.

Veyr stepped inside.

The muted chandelier above caught in his dark hair as he moved further in, the tail of his black hoodie swaying with each step. His face was expressionless, as always, calm in a way that didn’t belong to normal people. But it wasn’t his presence alone that froze Meirei and Cyrin.

It was what he carried in his arms.

A small, unconscious figure lay tucked against his chest, breathing faintly, wrapped loosely in the oversized sleeve of Veyr’s hoodie.

Meirei’s teacup stopped midway to his lips.

Cyrin’s jaw tightened.

Both spoke at once, their voices blending in the sudden quiet.

“Who is he?"